


If I wanted poetry...

by squire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John writes bad poetry, birthday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 17:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6203746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squire/pseuds/squire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides to do a service to mankind and spare it John's attempts at bad poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I wanted poetry...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ariane_DeVere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariane_DeVere/gifts).



> My dear Ariane DeVere! Here you have a dumb poetry fic - because Cedric had betrayed me, acquired a lightsaber and joined the Dark Side!
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> There was once a little imp named squire  
>  whose command of poetry was dire  
> dull and uninventive  
> for lack of incentive  
> save your soul and set this thing on fire!  
> 

 

 _Damn Sherlock, back at digging through my e-mails?_ Sherlock smiled in response to John's voice in his head and kept digging. John had only himself to blame, for his faults were numerous - starting with 1) his atrocious skills at internet security, 2) his absence from the flat due to work that was not The Work, and 3) leaving Sherlock alone after a fortnight in which the only cases presented to him were beneath even the level required to crack John's computer password. 

 _Fuck0ffSherl0ck_ wasn't very inventive after all. 

What John lacked in computer skills, he compensated in paranoia - his mail history, including the Outgoing folder, was suspiciously empty. With idle curiosity, Sherlock clicked at the Disc icon. Could be that John had created a backup copy of his account at some time and had forgotten about it... 

Well. _This_ was unexpected, and yet, entirely expectable. The file was untitled, as if to appear inconspicuous and failing at that. One look at the centre-flagged, uneven lines and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

 _Really John? Back at rhapsodising your girlfriends via bad e-mail poetry?_  

On a whim, Sherlock set the font colour to red and dived into the lines. John's non-existent sense of rhythm and on-the-nose rhyming skills couldn't be helped but to correct his spelling was the least a friend could do, Sherlock reasoned with himself as he began to read.

 

 

Through a lab door into a fairy tale

You tried to impress and you hadn't failed

I gave away much more than a phone

Right from the start

 

Sherlock frowned. John had met someone in a lab? The clinic's lab? Sherlock would know if it was at Bart's... and what was that about a phone? John was peculiar about his phone, never let it out of his hand, except for...

 

 

Over rooftops I took a leap of faith

The thrill of the chase took my breath away

Afterwards I did get my breath back

But not my heart

 

 _Cheesy, cheesy_ , Sherlock's callous corrector brain whispered even as his eyes raced along the lines. This was– _~~childish, plain, bad~~_ ~~,~~ _shut up,_ and Sherlock's chest clenched in the middle.

 

You kept putting hearts under microscope

And you saw defect but I saw hope

You weren't a hero and I wasn't a saint

It was all fine

 

Forever felt like my name on your lips

But our time was ticking with Greenwich pips

You said that you had no heart to be burned

But you had mine

 

Through banks and bombs and whips and hounds

I thought I saw our future bound

Until I saw you, alone and sharp

Against the sky

 

The last lines were scattered all over the rest of the page, and Sherlock was sure that if he clicked at the file history, here would be much more lines, crossed out and deleted.

 

~~And I said Let me through He's my friend~~

~~I can't~~

 

This was a stupid idea

 

I hate you

 

 

Sherlock checked the file date but he already knew what that would be. 

 _I take back what I said about your poetry, John._ Yes, it wasn't overly good, but Sherlock's chest hurt not because it was bad. 

Sherlock switched the font colour back to default and carefully added four more lines.

 

 

Years went by, feeling incomplete

Here we are, at last, in Baker Street

Two broken men but somehow whole

And it's all right

 

 

Then he closed the file, knowing that the addition would catapult it to the top in the folder. Knowing that John would notice. 

Hoping for it.

**Author's Note:**

> It would seem that I have channelled my inner John while writing this. It's odd, because when writing Sherlock-fic, I usually adopt Sherlock's angle - simply because my dear Ariane DeVere is such a John in skirts (truly, she's equal parts kindness, loyalty, and sass, everything wrapped up in questionable fashion sense) that my brain goes automatically into the complementary Sherlock mode when I'm around her. But not today. Happy birthday, Ariane!


End file.
